The Hard Way
by Pereybere
Summary: Draco Malfoy saved a certain mudblood's life back in fifth year and the memory of it has haunted him ever since until, in seventh year, he is forced to work with her.
1. Chapter 1

_Title: _The Hard Way

_Rating: _This will probably be an M rated story eventually. For now though, I'm marking it as T.

_Disclaimer: _These characters belong to JK Rowling. I merely borrow them, manipulate them and play with them – all for my own twisted pleasure.

A/N: To any of my Bones readers out there, you probably think I am crazy and well, yeah, I am, but I have taken a notion for this ship and well, it has bitten me bad. Also, my other account has fucked up over on the HP archive and I am not recognised.

Also, if anyone is reading this as The Bewitched One – I am the same person, not just stealing someone else's story. Thanks.

_Prologue _

The first indication that something, however infinitesimal, had changed came in his fifth year at Hogwarts. Not long after term had started in fact. The weather had only started to shift from summer to autumn and the air still carried a floral sweetness and indolent warmth. Strolling back from Quidditch practice, he was in no hurry to reach the oppressive school dungeons, preferring instead, the half-hearted breeze mixed with the scent of freshly cut grass and ruffled through his silver-blond hair.

He hadn't changed from his Quidditch uniform but it was simply too hot to wear the entire ensemble, so he had taken off his emerald and silver cloak and draped the luxurious garment over one shoulder instead, taking the winding path back to the castle at his leisure because, as a rule, he did not rush.

He had been musing over his new tactics for the year, kicking a shiny brown conker along the path when he heard it. At first, as his chrome eyes shot along the grass, he thought perhaps he might have imagined it. He stopped, his broomstick clutched tightly in his fist as he leaned his ear in the direction of the supposed sound and waited until the shrill, whimpering cry rang through the harvest air again.

Interest aroused, conker forgotten, he strode in the direction of the noise, a prickle of sweat forming on his brow because he was defying one of his own rules about hurrying. Reflecting on this for a moment, he made a conscious effort to slow down, not wishing to betray his cool exterior. When he slid around the corner, the sight that he stumbled upon displeased him greatly.

In hindsight, it was the effect such sight had on him that he was displeased the most about. He had so been enjoying the quiet calm of the September evening and he had no desire to play hero; to her or anyone else, but _especially _her.

Thomas Bryson of Ravenclaw, who was a year older than him and a considerable bit taller, had her pressed against the wall, his pale ash-wood wand pointed at her heart. He was growling at her, calling her names that, although Draco Malfoy agreed with every single one of them, he believed Bryson had no business saying.

He had insinuated his thigh between hers, forcing her legs apart. Her pleated school skirt rode high on her legs and her eyes, wide and rounded as a frightened rabbit, darted across the ancient stones behind Bryson's head, searching for her wand.

Propping his broom against one of Hogwarts' soaring towers, Malfoy slid his fingers into his cloak and removed his wand.

Up until that point he would have believed nothing significant had changed at all. She was struggling in the firm grip of an older Ravenclaw boy and her words were every bit as filthy as his, but with each wriggle of her body, Bryson's fingers tightened around her arm (in a manner which Draco suspected would leave considerable bruises after) and his growls lowered to the point that he was a snarling animal.

Striding over the flagstones of the plaza, Hermione Granger's eyes met his and he steadfast refused to acknowledge her plight. Bryson did not hear his approach and in fact did not recognize his presence at all until the tip of Draco's wand was pressed to the back of his ear.

"Get off her," he hissed to the sixth year in a menacing way that only a Malfoy and a Slytherin could possibly manage. Bryson lowered his own wand from where it was pressed to Granger's chest.

"Piss off Malfoy," the Ravenclaw replied with a nasty spit. "Slide off back to the dungeon and mind your own business." Draco's fingers tightened around his wand, digging into the spot behind Bryson's earlobe.

"I said," he bit out slowly, as though speaking to a particularly difficult child, "to get-the-_fuck_-off-her." Cursing was one of Draco's many vices, but it didn't occur to him on this particular evening that he had cursed at all. In fact, he was somewhat preoccupied with the frightened whimpers of Granger. Bryson's grasp around her slackened and she was like a puppet whose controller had released her strings, for she slid to the ground, legs folded beneath her.

"You want to fight over the mudblood, Malfoy?" Bryson asked, a snort of disbelief rising in his chest. Draco's slate eyes narrowed, but if he was having doubts about defending her honour (which he was) he did not show it. "Very un-Slytherin of you. And for a _Gryffindor_?" Bryson had wicked eyes, Draco thought, his wand aimed over his heart.

"A mudblood Gryffindor she might be," he replied with a low snarl, "but she's a _female_ mudblood Gryffindor and if you were a basilisk or a dragon I'd let you have her," a part of his mind wondered if this was altogether true, "but what kind of a cowardly _man_ corners a woman at night and tries to… well… whatever you were trying to do?" Bryson lifted his chin in defiance while Hermione rummaged about the flagstones for her wand, her fingers trembling awfully.

"Teach her a _lesson_," Bryson spat. Draco shrugged indifferently.

"Whatever. You're a coward." The Ravenclaw flicked his wrist, a formidable curse rising on his lips. Draco was faster, too shrewd a Slytherin to let someone as simple minded and as foolish as Bryson to hex him. "_Expelliarmus_," he commanded and Bryson flew twenty feet into the air, spinning like a lopsided, slightly dysfunctional top. His wand landed with a thud in the rose bushes ten feet behind him and when he rose from the stony ground, Bryson looked dazed, as if he couldn't believe that a fifth year and gotten one over on him. "Piss off back to your common room Bryson because expelliarmus is _not_ the worst curse I could do."

Draco snatched his broom from where it lay against the wall of the tower, his fingers a tight fist as he slid his wand back into his cloak. "And as for you, _Granger_, if you're going to walk about the school grounds alone, you deserve everything you get!"

Snapping at her was perhaps his way of rectifying his moment of good nature – for Draco was not familiar with helping others and especially not without a motive.

She had found her wand and was cradling it against her chest, her knees still bent beneath her and her lower lip trembled maddeningly with fear. "And pull yourself together for God's sake!" Draco snapped, wound up tighter than a spring now, "Gryffindor courage indeed? I should think not!"

And once he saw that Bryson had sunk into the shadows and away into the castle, he stalked off, as fast as his sinewy legs would carry him for, Merlin forbid, any of his housemates see that he had saved the life, or at least the virtue, of a mudblood!

He dwelled on that good deed of his for months, trying to reason it out, rationalise it because, he knew, he had no logical reason, none whatsoever, for wanting to see her spared. He hated her, after all.

Lucius would have said that his son was going soft and Draco had to agree, as he paced the Slytherin common room, night after night, haunted by the memory of his encounter with Bryson that autumn evening.

_If this is what it feels like to do something noble, screw it! _He thought, remembering with stunning clarity, the look on Granger's face when she saw him and their gazes, pureblood to mudblood, fused for the briefest of seconds when he had felt almost… what? He often asked himself. Protective?

His teasing of her continued mercilessly and if anything, he stepped his taunts up a notch, preferring to drown out the memories of his kindness, because that's what it was, really.

Well into their sixth year, when Bryson, a burly seventh year, could still not look Draco in the eye, he bumped into her as she was leaving the library, her wild hair scraped back into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. They had never been alone together since that September evening, and when he was, trying to shimmy past her into the library, Draco found that he was quite intimidated by her and he did _not_ like to feel intimidated by anyone.

"Out of my way you dirty little-" and then he stopped because, with no one to put a show on for, he found that he didn't want to insult her. Not really. He _hated_ her. Despised, if it were more intense a word than hated. Yet her downcast gaze, the pinkish tinge of embarrassment that dusted her cheekbones filled him with shame. He was not at all familiar with the concept of shame and he felt certain that her dirty-blood and the values of such heritage had somehow rubbed off on him and he felt… polluted.

"Malfoy-" Granger began and he shot her the fiery glare of liquid mercury.

"Piss off," he spat and her open mouth snapped shut, her jaw tight with annoyance and humiliation.

"Fine," she retorted, spinning on her heel and striding off down the corridor, mumbling under her breath about how much she loathed him.

He never had reason to be in her company for the remainder of his sixth year, but at night, when sleep didn't come easily, he tossed restlessly with her seemingly pure face in the recesses of his mind.

It was on the carriage back to Hogwarts after the summer, however, that the consequences of that afternoon way back in fifth year began to unfold.

_A/N: Over Parchment and Books might be continued at some stage but right now I am leaving it for awhile because the whole 'present tense' thing is quite difficult for me to master, no matter how many pages of it that I write. I hope you see potential in this one, however and I'd love to know what everyone thinks. _

_Also, if anyone here is a fan of Bones or The X-Files, I am Pereybere over on that archive – so check me out. I've been dabbling in a bit of everything of late. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: _No infringement is intended with this.

Chapter One

His badge gleamed on the lapel of his cloak, a bright emerald glinting between the words Head and Boy. He caught his reflection as he passed through the carriage, sweeping his silvery gaze over the students who he now had authority over. He looked good in his new Slytherin uniform, and the badge looked spectacularly important, pinned to the heavy cotton robe he wore.

Draco had not been especially surprised when Dumbledore had sent an owl with word of his accomplishment. His grades were high and although he broke a hundreds of school rules every year, he was never caught and that, Malfoy thought smugly, was exactly how he could have his cake and eat it.

He fully intended on continuing to operate under his theory that what Dumbledore didn't know wouldn't hurt him and if anything, his Head Boy status would allow him to sleuth better under the guise of his duties. Of course he was distinctly aware that the consequences of getting caught were far more serious than before.

A first year, awkward in his new robes, slid along the passageway between the carriages, his luminous amber eyes glinting with worry. "Please," he said to Malfoy in a voice that irritated Draco like fingernails on a chalkboard. "I've lost my owl… he… flew out the window and…" the boy looked on the verge of tears and Draco rolled his eyes.

"It's a bloody owl," he snapped, "it'll come back." He frowned and then, as an after thought, he turned back to the boy, "Don't suppose you're related to that twat Neville Longbottom?" As if he had been stricken, the new student, in black robes that had not yet been branded with a House emblem, took a few steps back.

"You're not very nice," he said in a voice that was a strangled whisper. Draco narrowed his nickel eyes on the kid, his fingers clenching inside the pockets of his robes. Brave little bugger, he thought, to confront an elder student so brazenly. Definitely a Gryffindor, he decided, didn't need to Sorting Hat to tell him that.

"No," a voice replied to the boy, "he's not."

Draco's eyes flew over the top of the boy's brown head, meeting the menacing glare of Hermione Granger. He noticed the badge she wore on her lapel, too; a bright ruby nestled between Head and Girl and he felt his fist tighten considerably. Behind her, Weasley and Potter flanked her like bodyguards and Draco fought the urge to scoff at her.

"What's your name?" Potter asked, his eyes the same colour as the stone on Draco's badge.

"David," the young first year said, "David Willis." Harry knelt by his side.

"I'll have my owl go fetch yours and bring him back, okay?" David sniffed, nodding his head. "Go back into your carriage and sit down." Straightening, Harry turned to Granger, sandwiching himself between Draco and her, as if to shield her from him. "Any hassle, 'Mione…" he saw the curls that even Harry's body could not hide, bounce as she nodded.

"I know Harry," she assured him, "go send Hedwig after David's owl and I'll see you when the train stops." Weasley's artic gaze had never shifted from Malfoy – not even during the exchange with David. Draco rolled his eyes, spinning on his heel.

Yanking open the door to the compartment he was expected, or rather obligated to share with Granger, Draco stepped in, slamming it shut. Beyond the glass he could see the swish of her scarlet and black robes, and he turned to the window, watching as the English countryside slid by, a blur of greens and browns.

He did not sit, his spine rigidly straight as the door opened again and the air was polluted by her mudblood presence. He closed his eyes, listening to her shuffle about behind him. "Congratulations to Gryffindor," he said, even though he did not want to speak to her at all. Sometimes Draco found that his inability to keep quiet was his greatest weakness and he did not, if he admitted so himself, have many weaknesses. "Another do-gooder to add to the scores that there have been before him. The kid'll fit in well with your kind." Even without opening his eyes, without seeing her, he knew Granger had bristled.

"He might be a Hufflepuff," she snorted, "or a Ravenclaw. There is no way, of course, that the child will have the misfortune of consorting with Slytherin scum." His lids snapped open, the countryside whizzing by as the train careened along the track towards their school.

"Wasn't it Ravenclaw filth that had you backed against a wall many moons ago?" he asked, his voice a deadly whisper and he _still_ refused to turn and look at her. "And Slytherin scum that saved you from being _raped_." He had never uttered the possible conclusion of that evening, not even to himself, for seeing Granger as a creature that anyone might look at in a sexual manner both repulsed and intrigued him and in the truth, the later of those two worried him.

Granger scoffed. "He wasn't going to rape me," she growled, "Bryson was pissed because his father was in Azkaban and he blamed Harry. Slytherin isn't the _only_ House that breeds Voldemort's parasites, you know." He swivelled to face her now, both surprised by this new piece of information and her lack of fear when she spoke the Dark Lord's name.

"What a brave little Gryff-"

"My being able to speak his name," Granger said with a defiant tilt of her chin, "has nothing to do with being a Gryffindor. I just have more guts that you." Malfoy levelled his glare on her, knowing that if she wasn't afraid to utter the name of Voldemort she would not be afraid to him. "And if you try to embarrass or upset the first years Malfoy I will-"

He stalked towards her, furious that she could talk to him as though she were inferior. She was a mudblood and so she would be treated!

"You'll _what_, Granger?" he asked, backing her against the door of their compartment. His eyes glinted like the blade of a knife and he thought he saw in her own eyes, for a millisecond, the reminiscent flecks of fear before she composed herself. Clenching her jaw, she lifted her knee, knocking the bottom of her thigh into his crotch. His eyes widened in disbelief.

"I don't need magic to hurt you, Malfoy," she spat venomously, "and don't forget it." Shoving him aside, she dropped unto the chair, rummaging in her bag for a moment. He braced his hand against the compartment door, breathing deeply for a long second, while the burning ache in his groin fired through his belly.

"Mudblood," he spat, the intense hatred in his eyes shielded only by the curtain of his blond hair. "Next time someone has noble ideas about killing you, I'll be sure to fucking let them." Hermione shrugged indifferently, tossing her hair as she focused on pulling her book from her bag.

"I might be muggle-born," she said at last, as though she had not really wanted to speak at all, "but I am purer than you'll ever be." Draco took great offence to this, knowing that, under no circumstances, was Granger purer in blood than he.

Only one truly good thing had come of the train journey, Malfoy thought, and that was that he no longer had to feel bad about helping Granger because all notions he had that he actually might have cared (marginally) about her were erased the moment he looked at her smug expression, with her Gryffindor ruby glinting prettily in the fading autumn light.

"I hate you, Granger," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Really? Oh _Draco_," she drawled, "you cannot possibly know how difficult it will be to get the wedding invites back before everyone _reads_ them." Her dark eyes rolled skyward and she clicked her tongue. "Ours was never destined to be any great love affair was it?" her question was of course, entirely rhetorical.

.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I cannot express," Minerva McGonagall said, her strides brisk as she led them along the fourth floor corridor, "how concerned I am about the two of you working in such close quarters this year." Hermione almost had to jog to maintain the Deputy Headmistress' frenzied pace towards the portrait of a Grecian witch at the far end.

"You don't need to be concerned, Professor," Hermione promised, shooting a dark glare in Malfoy's direction. "While there is certainly no love lost between us, I can assure you I am more than capable of maintaining a mature and positive outlook this year; for the sake of Gryffindor, if nothing else." Professor McGonagall stopped abruptly, turning to face them with a swish of her emerald robes, her gaze levelling immediately on Draco.

"And _you_, Mister Malfoy?" she asked sternly, as though trying to read his mind. Draco's expression, however, was as stony as the castle walls and just as grey.

"Professor," he said, making a rude sound with his tongue, "I am here to finish my last year of school and fulfil my duties as Head Boy and since," he paused for dramatic effect, "I am the only Slytherin you have seen fit to appoint to this role in quite a few years, owing to the fact that you seem to hold Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in _extraordinarily_ high regards, I do not intend on giving yourself or our good Headmaster any reason to deny us in future."

Hermione folded her arms, quite sure that if anyone else had spoken to a teacher with such a haughty tone, points would have been deducted immediately. Since, of course, they were only in the castle an hour, Slytherin's points would have been in minus figures, had Professor McGonagall done this.

"So you see," Hermione hurried to say, "we intend on performing our duties together."

McGonagall hummed, spinning again, striding towards the portrait with a renewed exuberance. "I am not sure how I feel about you sharing a common room. The Avada Kedavra curse had never seemed as much a threat before as it is now." Hermione did not think Professor McGonagall would ever indulge in melodramatics before now.

"I wouldn't risk expulsion," she said, stopping outside the portrait.

"It's not you," McGonagall said, "that I am worried about." Draco fought the urge to remove his wand and perform the curse on the batty old cow himself. Filled with rage, he felt his chest constrict with annoyance.

"Afraid I'm cut from the same cloth as _all _Malfoys?" he snapped.

"It's a fair assumption," Hermione replied, scanning the portrait that she had never seen before. "You are certainly cut from the same cloth as your Death Eater father," she added. Malfoy growled.

"This is _exactly_ what I am worried about!" Professor McGonagall snapped, throwing her hands into the air. "Petty snapping and jibes. Miss Granger," she said in a whispered plea, "hold your tongue for goodness sake!" Hermione thought it was something of an injustice that _she_ was expected to hold her tongue and Malfoy was allowed to say whatever he wished.

"I apologise, Professor," she said at last, her tone clipped. Malfoy, with his silver-blond hair and eloquent pewter eyes that glinted with an air of aristocracy looked as though he were almost angelic and she wanted to reach out and strangle him – and had it not been for the fact that her teacher was there and she had already kneed him in the balls earlier, she would have.

"_Athens_," Professor McGonagall said to the portrait and the Greek witch, with flowing blonde hair that looked just like Draco's only more sun-kissed, turned her aquamarine eyes on them, smiling fondly.

"Ah," she whispered nostalgically, "I am from Athens." Draco hated the flourishing romance of portraits, and how they always seemed to find it necessary to needlessly consume time that, he thought, could be better spent doing other things.

"Is the password Athens or not?" he snapped, "just let us in, would you?"

Professor McGonagall insinuated herself between Draco and the portrait. "Adonia," she said patiently, "please let us into the common room." Obligingly, the witch's frame swung forward and the arched entrance was revealed. "In you go," McGonagall said hurriedly, allowing Hermione to climb the six narrow steps into the common room first.

Although nowhere near as large as the House common rooms, theirs was opulently furnished, almost as well as those of the faculty. Lush carpets spanned the width of the room, a dark navy blue, the colours did not, as Hermione had expected, reflect the colours of Gryffindor or Slytherin at all.

A large sofa and two armchairs faced a wide stone fire place that, at present, was lit and omitting a crackling warmth that bathed their skin. On the far wall, an arched window looked out unto the school grounds, offering a spectacular view of the lake and in the farthest distance, Hogsmeade.

"Miss Granger, your room is up the stairs to the left, and Mister Malfoy yours to the right." Boarding the common room, high above the fireplace, a balcony spanned the perimeter and on either side, as far apart as physically possible, the heavy wooden doors to their respective bedrooms. "Your duties will commence tomorrow, starting with a meeting with Professor Snape and myself in the Great Hall after breakfast."

She offered them both a last worrying glance. "If there is any indication, any at _all_, that forbidden magic is taking place inside this room, you will both face severe consequences." When her back was turned, Malfoy barely refrained from sticking his tongue petulantly out at her. "Goodnight to you both," she added, descending the stairs. After a moment, the portrait swung shut, sealing them together.

Kicking off his shoes, Draco strode across the common room floor in his sock-clad feet, sweeping his gaze across the furniture. "It'll do, I suppose," he said, critically noting that he would have liked a bigger writing bureau.

"I suspect you're used to far more eloquent things at your fancy manor," Hermione said, taking off her own shoes but, instead of leaving them in haphazard pile, she tucked them beneath the desk. Malfoy watched her as she unclipped her robe, stretching her dark gaze towards the ceiling above their heads.

"Far more eloquent," he agreed snappishly, annoyed that his memories of the past summer were not as delightful as usual, what with his father being locked up in Azkaban; no more than the bastard deserved – but still, his mother was miserable and he had spent two months watching his lovely mother glide towards the light of insanity. It was almost as though _she _had been given the Dementor's Kiss. He sighed.

Granger was looking at him, her brow marred in something that approached concern – a damned cheek, he thought, after she had kneed him in the groin. "Don't need your pity," he said turning away from her and she scoffed.

"Rich boy spends summer petting horses and doing extravagant things… however did you _cope_ Malfoy? Let me assure you, my pity is extended to you only because I cannot possibly fathom how you have lived such a selfish life." His shoulders tensed his eyes blazing in the orange fire as the flamed curled around the coals.

"You really are a very callous woman," Draco said, leaning forward on the sofa, bracing his elbows on his knees. Suddenly the common room felt stiflingly hot, with his robes and the fire.

"I'm callous?" Hermione asked in a burst of surprise. "Sure… 'mudblood' this and 'mudblood' that…" he heaved another sigh, thinking about his mother again. She'd be alone until Christmas with only the house elves, who, he knew, were non-too fond of her overly abrasive attitude. "Malfoy?" Hermione strode in front of him, hands on her hips. "Are you _awake_?" He clenched his teeth.

"Of course I am fucking awake!" he snapped.

"You should go to bed," she said after a long moment, her smooth brow furrowed. He didn't like to think that she was softening to him. "You look tired." He resisted the urge to tell her to fuck off and mind her own business. Mostly because he wasn't used to anyone being concerned about him.

"Yeah," he said at last, straightening. He climbed the stairs to where his room was, looking over the railing at her, with her eyes downcast in a pensive glare at the floor. "Hey Granger," he said with a cheeky smirk, "no dirty dreams about me this year. I'm not way down in the dungeons anymore."

Hermione clicked her tongue. "Fat chance Malfoy," she replied tightly, "fat chance!"


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: These characters belong to J K Rowling and there is no infringement intended. _

In the strangest and probably cruellest form of irony, it was Draco who dreamt of her that night.

Pressed against the tower, her eyes locking into his, she had been afraid in a way that he had never seen a Gryffindor before. With Bryson's knee wedged between her legs, her hazelnut eyes begged for help where her mouth would not. Great Merlin, no! Hermione Granger would never, _ever_, ask a Slytherin for help.

When he woke, autumn sunlight flirted with his eyes and he blinked, throwing his arm over his face, groaning. Nothing bothered him as much as losing valuable sleep over a mudblood.

"Malfoy?" a knock feel gently on his heavy oak door and Granger's voice filtered into his spacious bedroom.

"Piss off, Granger," he retorted, although more to himself. Hermione, however, huffed loudly on the other side.

"I heard that, you ignoramus! Get up!" Didn't she realise that, while she might have had authority over the other pupils in Hogwarts, she had no authority over him whatsoever? Nestling back against the pillows, he steadfastly refused to move a muscle until she had gone. "I don't hear you _moving _Malfoy!" she growled, her mouth probably pressed against the wood.

"I'll hex you," he promised, searching for his wand. "I swear!" Hermione tapped the toe of her shoe against the door.

"Fine! You've slept in you insufferable fool and you'll be late for the meeting!" A flicker of worry pulled his eyes away from the door, over to the neon clock on his dresser. It was already pressing on to eight fifteen and breakfast had begun in the Great Hall thirty minutes ago.

Clearing his throat, he clenched his teeth. Obviously dreaming of Hermione Granger had not caused him to loose sleep at all. In fact, the little wench had caused him to oversleep.

Tossing his covers aside, he cursed his conscience and pulled his bathrobe over his semi naked body. His fingers encountered his wand beneath his pillow and he strode, barefoot across the length of his room, unlocking his door with a snappish command.

Granger was resting against the railing across the hall, her uniform pressed neatly and her scarlet and gold tie tight against her throat. "I told you I'd hex you and I _will_." The tip of his wand was pointed at her throat and he thought he might have noticed her fingers uncurling as if to reach for something – probably her own wand.

"You will do _no_ such thing!" Draco turned his silvery gaze to the common room below, finding Weasley leaning against the large fireplace. His chest tightened.

"Get the fuck out of here, Weasley," Draco spat and the lanky redhead straightened, his blue eyes narrowing in fiery annoyance. "Did you let him in here, mudblood?" Hermione, pressed against the railing, tilted her chin in defiance.

"Not just him, Malfoy," reclining comfortably on the sofa, feet propped on the table, Harry's emerald eyes glinted menacingly. "Hex her, and we won't be as kind as to merely kick you in the balls." Livid that Granger had told her bodyguards about her volatile attack on him the day before, Malfoy turned his eyes to her, finding, much to his surprise and annoyance, that there was a glimmer of amusement twinkling in her irises.

Stepping close to her, mere inches separated their bodies as he leaned into her. "Get your friends out of here, Granger, because they can't protect you forever." Her pink tongue darted out to touch her lower lip.

"You threatening me, Malfoy?" she asked. He would never understand why he reached out, passing his fingertip along the vee of her sweater, the point of which stopped just above her breasts.

"What's going on up there, 'Mione?" Ron asked, striding towards the stairs.

"No, Granger," Draco said as though Weasley had never spoken. "I promise." Spinning on his heel, he strode back into his bedroom, slamming the door. "Get those fuckers out of my common room," he called through the wood, smirking to himself as he did. The cocky little girl wasn't going to get one over on him! No way.

.-.-.-.-

October brought with it, chilly weather and cool rain. Leaves tore from their trembling branches, slamming against the window outside the common room and Hermione commanded the fire to light, huddling inside her cloak as she waited on the brown owl coming into sight.

The Daily Prophet had reported on a Death Eater attack in London, on a muggle family, and Hermione felt a prickle of fear in her heart at the thought of the vile creatures wandering so close to her parents.

"Stop sulking in the corner," Malfoy snapped, propping his feet on the coffee table. "The stupid bird probably got lost." As if to contradict him at once, the owl flew between two leafless trees, gliding on a cushion of air towards the window. She saw the rolled parchment attached to his leg and Hermione dared to hope that her parents were entirely unaffected by the murders.

The bird hooted merrily, nipping playfully at her wrist as she tried to untie the note. With her freehand, Hermione stroked his brown feathered head, watching as wide amber eyes darted across the room and settling on Malfoy. His contented hooting intensified, almost menacing as Hermione tore the yellow ribbon from the parchment.

_Hermione_, it read in her mother's distinctive scrawl that was not dissimilar to her daughter's, _Your father and I are well. We heard about the two bodies but we had not realised that they were involved with your kind. Please be careful, if such attacks are occurring, there must surely be problems. Write soon,_

_Mum._

She released a breath from her lungs, dropping her hand from the owl's head. "Thank you," she said to the bird, reaching into her pocket for snacks. The bird took them greedily, his beak nipping at her palm.

"What's been your problem, Granger?" Malfoy asked, staring at her through silken blond tendrils of hair. She turned to him, levelling her eyes on him for a long moment.

"What do you know about the attacks in London?" she asked, her heart pumping inside her ribs. Before he answered, the owl cried out, flying out the window towards the waning orange light.

"What makes you think I'd know anything?" Draco asked harshly, the silvery shimmer of his hair made almost golden by the flickering flames in the grate. Hermione tucked her mother's letter into her pocket, easing the window shut. "Because I'm a Malfoy?" She did not deny his accusation, folding herself into one of the cushioned armchairs.

She no longer felt tense, here, having familiarised herself to his brooding, often silent presence in their shared common room. "Well you _are_ a Malfoy and your father is a Death Eater…" Draco tugged at the loosened knot of his silver and emerald tie. She expected him to be rigidly furious, but his eyes were downcast.

"My father is in Azkaban," he told her with a lowly growl, "so I can't imagine he has anything to do with those attacks." Hermione had tried to feel sorry for Malfoy, once, and had regretted it immensely when he had told her that he did not need mudblood sympathy.

"He deserves to be in Azkaban," she could not help but retort. "He slaughtered innocent people in the name of, what?" Draco swung his legs off the table, leaning forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees.

"Freedom," he hissed at her, "from impure families." Hermione bristled, hating his ignorance. "And if murder is the only means…" His voice had lost its conviction and she found it most curious that there was even a hint of hesitation in his tone. Did he truly believe the drivel he spoke? "They'll target your parents eventually," Draco said after a long moment, the pupils of his eyes as black as polished onyx, the irises glinting like silver, Hermione believed if his eyes were jewellery, they'd sell for an astounding amount of money.

"You don't know that," she replied, annoyed at the hint of a tremble in her voice.

"They will," Draco insisted. "If it's the only way to ensure that you relinquish your wand." Hermione thought of her parents, patient and kind, and she felt dread wash over herself.

"I'll never surrender to Voldemort," she insisted. "I'm stronger than you, Malfoy." He looked strong himself, she thought, with his jaw clenched in annoyance. "You'll live to regret your allegiance," she added with a hint of malice.

"Doubt it," he replied sharply, "I'd rather serve Voldemort than be on your side, Granger." It was the first time that she had heard him say the Dark Lord's name and Hermione was struck by how much it hurt that he would summon the courage to mutter the name only to insult her.

"I hope the Dementors suck your soul, Malfoy," she bit back, turning on her heel. "What soul you have, that is."

She hated to believe that he had no soul.

But what would occur in the next week would not only reinforce her belief that somewhere, in the darkest recesses of his psyche, Malfoy did have a soul, but also that he was not entirely sure where is loyalties lay.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **The Hard Way

**Rating: **Eventually M, I think.

**Disclaimer: **The characters mentioned herein belong to JK Rowling and not me. There is no infringement intended – I'm merely borrowing her characters to play with.

**Author's Note: **Well, it's been a very long time since I updated this. It might give some hope to the Bones readers to know that sometimes I do revisit my unfinished stories. Please send me a review, Dramione fans, and let me know what you think of this story, so far. Thanks so much!

Outside of Transfiguration, Hermione struggled to arrange a pile of textbooks in her arms, lost in a world of mental note-taking. Quidditch practice had Harry and Ron rushing through the castle corridors, their black robes billowing behind them as they absently bid her goodbye over their shoulders. She rolled her eyes.

_What gentlemen_, she thought. _Helping a laden-down girl with her books. As if_. Ron and Harry, she was pretty certain, saw her as one-of-the-guys. If she expected chivalry from them she'd be waiting a particularly long time.

Carefully balancing the books, Hermione blew a tuft of hair from her face and started off down the hallway towards the common room. Neville would have helped her, she knew, if only he wasn't bed-ridden with an especially bad case of the flu. Neville would never have seen a girl in trouble, unlike her cavemen friends. _Thanks a lot, boys_, she fumed. _It's all about Quidditch_.

"Granger!" The cool voice met her ears and she stilled. A confrontation with Draco Malfoy was all she needed today. Three complex assignments to complete – not to mention that tonight was her night for patrolling the castle. Malfoy stepped in front of her, blocking her path with his expensive broomstick. "I need to speak to you," he told her in brisk, low tones. "Not here. The walls have ears. Meet me outside by Hagrid's pond in fifteen minutes. Don't be late." Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he was gone in a flash of green and black, jogging in the same direction that Harry and Ron had departed. She frowned, perplexed.

In three days he hadn't spoken to her – firmly denying that she even existed. He ignored her when she entered their shared common room and refrained from his usual brand of taunts in the classroom. Potions saw him keep his head bent, his silvery-blond hair falling over his face as he studiously chopped ingredients. He'd been oddly quiet, too, even with his loyal followers. Pansy chased him like a dog in heat and Crabbe and Goyle, with their childish pranks, failed to elicit even the hint of a sneer from him. The atypical behaviour had Hermione stumped but if she was truthful, she neither cared nor wanted to know.

She did want to know, however, what he needed to tell her by the pond. The reason was surely a big one for Malfoy's hatred of her stretched beyond the realms of normal. His skin seemed to visibly crawl when her proximity was too close and for him to willingly request a meeting with her... Hermione felt a tightening knot of apprehension in her stomach as she reached the common room and recited the password to the Grecian witch.

***

Hagrid's pond was where he bred frogs and magical fish. The dark water shimmered orange where speedy Hornback goldfish – a special breed – wove through the pond-grass. Hermione bobbed anxiously, her eyes scanning the tree-line for any hint of Malfoy's approach. The air was cool, slipping through the branches and permeating her thick wool robes. Hermione pulled the heavy material across the chest, folding her arms as she shifted. The Quidditch players wouldn't notice the chill in the air this evening, ducking and diving as they did – swishing left and right to avoid bludgers and chase the golden snitch. In the distance she could hear the players calling each other vulgar names, out of earshot of the teachers. Sometimes the teams would play each other – unofficial games that would aid in their practice. Today Gryffindor shared the field with Slytherin and that, Hermione suspected, was probably why Malfoy was late.

A bloody cheek, too, since he'd insisted on her punctuality.

The sun was setting, turning the sky a sombre shade of ominous grey. Darkness crept in like an unwelcome visitor. Hermione knew that as each moment passed, her homework was unfinished. As cheers erupted on the field, a rustle of leaves drew her eyes to the forestry. Draco stood in the murky shadows, his silver eyes luminous as she beckoned her.

"What is with all this secrecy?" she demanded, annoyed. "Couldn't we have talked in the common room?" It was too cold for clandestine meetings by the Forbidden Forest and Hermione had no time for Malfoy's games.

"Your parents aren't safe," he told her, devoid of formalities. "An attack is planned on eight muggle families this weekend. Your parents have been named as targets." His eyes shifted nervously, his movements jerky. Hermione felt a claw of frigid ice encompass her, fear mounting as her eyes widened. "Don't," Malfoy said, "and I mean _don't_, under any circumstances reveal to anyone that I told you." His pupils were huge, revealing the extent of his fear. Their eyes searched one and other, she profoundly grateful despite the terror filled her and he deeply confused about why he felt the need to protect her family. To protect her. "Do I have your word on this?" he asked her, his knuckles white around the shaft of his broomstick. The hood of his Slytherin Quidditch uniform kept his platinum hair concealed and only his ghostly pale face peaked out from the darkness. His lips were thin – tight.

"Yes..." she replied, her voice a croaky whisper. She needed to warn her parents immediately. Her mother and father, so blissfully unaware that a murderous attack was being planned for them. She choked back a sob, turning to flee for the castle. Draco's cold fingers encircled her wrist – so tight that his grasp hurt. When he pulled her towards him, she stumbled, fear tightening in her chest. For a frightening second she wondered if it was a trap – if luring her here was all part of some elaborate plan to kill _her_.

_No!_ she insisted fiercely. _He isn't this person. Not really_. Hermione didn't know why she still believed that deep inside, Draco's allegiance to the Dark Side was not his own free choice.

His face was close to hers. "If you do," he told her, "I'll be dead." His words were not meant as a threat and yet they were completely terrifying. Hermione swallowed hard, stunned at the dread she witnessed in him. He was risking his life for her and her family, of that she was certain.

"Malfoy..." she breathed, barely able to find her voice in the torrent of emotion that threatened to suffocate her. "Thank you. I promise you my discretion." She knew, as she dashed away from the thicket of trees that she had sounded far too formal – almost stiff. The risks far outweighed anything good that could come of his betrayal to The Dark Lord. Regardless of anything that might happen, Hermione promised that she would never reveal her source.

A curl of smoke rose from Hagrid's chimney, alerting her to his presence. Hermione's fist thundered against the heavy wooden door, urgency close to exploding from within. Hagrid was unhurried as he slid back the bolts and peered out at her, his large black eyes wide with surprise.

"Well if it isn't our young Hermione!" She did not wait to be invited into his hut, barging into the toasty warmth and gasping for breath. Although she hadn't run far from the pond to Hagrid's home, she hadn't quite been able to breath properly since Malfoy had disclosed the dark intentions of the Death Eaters. "Merlin above, are you alright there?" Hermione's hands trembled under the large sleeves of her robe. She reached for the armchair, steadying herself.

"Hagrid," she began in a frantic whisper, "I can't tell you why, but I need you to trust me. I need an Anonymous Owl."

Unlike the owls from the owlery, which were carefully tracked and monitored, Hagrid had access to the kind of bird that the school did not have on their thorough list. She couldn't risk the letter being intercepted by someone at the school. Trust, Hermione knew, was not to be given lightly. She knew that Lucius Malfoy had plenty of influence at Hogwarts and he was an unabashed Death Eater.

"An Anonymous Owl?" Hagrid echoed. "Hermione, I can't just go givin' out Anonymous Owls, just like that, now." She felt a wash of tears prickle at her eyes and it required every ounce of her emotional strength to quell her emotions.

"It's a matter of _great_ urgency, Hagrid," she insisted. "A matter of life or death." The giant man contemplated her words for a long time, watching her through a mass of wiry black hair. Eventually, owing to her trustworthy and sensible character, he agreed. "Thank you, Hagrid. You don't know how grateful I am." Her slender arms wrapped around his incredible girth, nowhere near long enough to encompass him.

"Now, now," he said quickly, petting her head. "Enough of that. I'll have an owl sent to your room in thirty minutes. You can't tell anyone, mind. The headmaster will have my keys, if he knows." Hermione knew it would take far more than an unauthorised use of an Anonymous Owl for Dumbledore to dismiss his groundskeeper. Hagrid was his most trusted confidante.

"Thank you," she said again. "Thank you."

***

The tawny owl with no name took to the skies at just after midnight. Hermione watched until the elegant bird had disappeared into the darkness.

She had avoided her two best friends all evening, afraid that her fear might tempt her into telling them what Malfoy had revealed. She felt numb, icy fear clawing at her heart as she tried in vain to warm herself by the fire. Even with her heavy clothes and woollen robe, the cold found her skin. Hermione's teeth chattered and she rubbed her arms fiercely, picturing the Anonymous Owl, soaring over hills and dipping into the valleys on its way to her parents modest home. She hoped the message was received and that her parents had ample time to find safety.

Swiping stubbornly at a rogue tear, Hermione turned her gaze towards the flames as the portrait swung open and Malfoy climbed in, still in his Quidditch attire. She caught a glimpse of him as he tossed his broomstick into the corner, far less carefully than he normally would handle his property. Draco's broomstick allowed him to perfect his abilities as a Seeker and it was a job he took very seriously. Hermione found herself wondering if he harbouring shame for his earlier good deed.

"Malfoy...?"

"Don't talk about it, Granger," his voice was cold and sharp, piercing her like an icicle shaved into a spiky point. There was a finality to his tone and Hermione didn't want to contradict the person to whom she was eternally indebted. _The walls have ears_, she remembered him saying just that afternoon. His cool grey eyes scanned the tapestry covered walls dubiously and she nodded once, indicating that she understood.

"Why, Malfoy?" she asked, although she didn't expect that he could or would provide an elaborate enough answer to satisfy her curiosity. He didn't speak at all, for a long time, unclipping his robe and removing the heavy leather boots he wore for Quidditch. Despite the coldness in his ever-metallic eyes, Hermione felt the a spark of warmth spread in her chest for the first time since that afternoon. There was something about him... something that made her almost yearn to comfort him. He had his parents, alive and well and yet Draco Malfoy had a deadness in his eyes of an orphaned child.

"It doesn't matter," he told her briskly. "Just don't get too accustomed to me playing hero to your damsel in distress." He began to climb the stairs to his bedroom, his usually perfect poise slouched and defeated. "They're not stupid," he added with his back to her. "Eventually they'll know it was me." When he was on the landing, Hermione broke their usual bitter form.

"Draco?" He stopped abruptly and she could see his pained expression reflected in the window upstairs. "Please be careful."

For a moment something human flickered across his face but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the hardened indifference he was so good at. Striding on, Malfoy slammed his bedroom door without either another word or a backward glance.


End file.
